“This guy who bet ten thousand on the A’s. Do you know who he is?”
“He didn’t come here. He’s a regular at a little place over on South First Street. A buddy of mine works there. Why?”
I explained my theory.
“Could be. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Could you find out the time he placed the bet, too? Thorson was killed sometime after seven forty-five.”
“Check.”
I called Bergman back a couple of hours later.
“No luck. The guy who took the bet doesn’t get in until later. Where are you going to be tonight?”
I gave him the number of my press box phone and left for the ballpark.
Chapter 23
There wasn’t a whole lot to do before the game, for a change. With the pennant clinched, there was no particular need to talk to the Yankees, which suited me just fine. It was a pleasure to be able to treat them as also-rans.
I spent some time with my favourite New York beat writer, Arnie Shapiro. He was a funny little guy from a daily in New Jersey who managed to cover the Yankees without becoming self-important, a rare feat.
He had delicious gossip. One of the outfielders had picked up a woman in a Cleveland bar who turned out to be a transsexual who hadn’t quite finished her/his surgery. The manager had got into a fist fight with his bullpen coach on the plane. And the team bus had been chased by a gang of Detroit thugs after a relief pitcher pissed out the window on their car. An average road trip for the princes in pinstripes.
They weren’t all jerks, mind you. Just most of them. I spent a pleasant ten minutes talking with Gene Ridell, their shortstop. He had his family with him and wanted advice on sightseeing. A friendly man, he was stunningly rare in his interest in people and places outside of the game. He was also a good person to interview about playoffs. He’d been in a lot of them. It might make an interesting sidebar.
“Are you very disappointed in losing the division?”
He shrugged.
“I’ve been there before. I’ll be there again.”
“What about the pressure? Everyone predicts that the Titans are going to blow it because they haven’t been in the playoffs before.”
“Well, by the time you get to the playoffs you’ve already been through a lot of weird stuff. The playoffs are just a little weirder. They’ll do fine if they don’t psych themselves out of it.”
“What’s the hardest thing to deal with?”
“I guess the feeling that in the playoffs everything you do matters so much. Baseball should be peaceful. There should be room for mistakes. Errors are part of the game. Failure’s part of the game. But it’s hard to remember that when there’s so much on the line. The playoffs and World Series turn baseball into a very unforgiving game.”
“So your advice to the Titans would be?”
“Relax. Try to enjoy it. This is what it’s all about. And don’t forget what brought you here. Teamwork. No one wins a game all by himself. If you strike out, that just means it’s someone else’s turn to drive in the run. You’ll be asked to do other things that you’ll do well. Don’t dwell on your failures.”
“Easier said than done.”
“For sure. I was a basket case my first time. You’re talking to the guy whose error cost us a game in the playoffs three years ago. But I also drove in the winning run in the next game.”
“Which do you remember more?”
“Winning felt better, but I’ll never forget the error. I guess I just cancelled myself out. I might as well not have played.”
“You’re pretty philosophical today.”
“You get that way when you know you’re going to be watching the World Series on television.”
“I guess. Have fun with your family here. And have a good winter, if I don’t see you before you leave.”
“You too. And, hey. Watch out for that pressure!”
“Thanks. I’ll just write one game at a time.”
The last series of the season is like the last week of school, with the same schizophrenic blend of relief and anticipatory nostalgia. The world is about to change abruptly. Most of the people you see every day will be gone. And not all of them will be back. It’s great to get away from the schoolyard bullies and teacher’s pets, but you know that in a month you’ll be missing them. Of course, I still had to get through the playoffs and World Series, even if the Titans didn’t go that far. A lot of column inches to fill. I went to the press box to write.
The game was pretty uneventful. There were so many backup players and minor-leaguers in the lineup it looked like spring training. Harry Belcher started in what would have been Steve Thorson’s spot. Since he had spent the season in the minors on merit, no one expected him to do much; but he pitched a pretty good six innings before Red brought in his relievers to get some work. Titans lost, 6–5.
The biggest excitement in the press box was when Arnie Shapiro called his office in New Jersey and found out that Hank Chambers and Jim Wilder, former Yankee stars, had just been arrested.
“What for? Drunk driving?”
“No way. Possession of cocaine and dangerous weapons.”
“Ouch.”
I’d met both players one spring when they’d come to the Titan camp to see Moose. I turned to him.
“Are you okay?”
He was pale. “It’s a shock. Those guys are friends of mine.”
“Have you seen them recently? Did you know they were into this kind of stuff?”
“No, I haven’t. I didn’t. Stupid bastards. What were they messing with that shit for? Damn.”
He sent one of the press box runners to check the sports wire. The kid came back in ten minutes with a scrap of paper torn from the machine. Moose read it and passed it to me. It was an early story, just reporting that the pair had been arrested, along with three others, in a police drug raid. I passed it to Arnie.
“That’s tough, Moose. I’m sorry.”
“That stuff just brings you grief.”
After the game, I stopped by Gloves Gardiner’s locker and told him about Chambers and Wilder.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “They’re maniacs. I thought they were strung out when I saw them last week.”
“Where?”
“At Yankee Stadium. Didn’t you see them? They were there before the game Thursday night. They had seats right next to our dugout.”
“Huh. I guess I didn’t recognize them.”
“I think that’s the day you got there late.”
That late lunch, haunting me again.
“It’s too bad, anyway. They used to be fine players.”
“But not particularly fine people,” Gloves said.
“They had it all once. Now it’s drugs and guns?”
“And greed, same as most people. The most Chambers ever made in his career, even when he was a batting champion, was probably $150,000. Kids two weeks out of the minors get that these days. Maybe he figured the world owed it to him.”
“So he was bitter.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Since writers don’t make that kind of money, I don’t think the temptation will be laid in my path.”
“And you’re probably a better person for it.”
“Thanks, but I think I’d be willing to face the challenge.”
MacPherson drove me home in silence. Something was wrong, but I was too tired to ask. When we got to my house, he spoke, looking embarrassed.
“Did you tell Staff Sergeant Munro about last night?”
“Lord, no. Why?”
“He was acting real funny today. I looked up one time and he was standing there laughing at me. For no reason.”
“I can’t imagine what that could be about.”
“I don’t think it was anything I said or did.
”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
I realized I hadn’t heard from Andy since I’d given him the blackmail material. Both Joe Kelsey and David Sloane had been at the stadium but I hadn’t spoken to either of them. I thought of calling Andy, but it was almost midnight. He might get the wrong idea. He might be right.
Besides, I had a day game to cover. I went to bed and dreamed I was on deadline, trying to find a phone in Yankee Stadium to file my story. But they were all being used by people who wouldn’t get off: Steve Thorson, Joe Kelsey, Gloves Gardiner, David Sloane, Sam Craven, Jim Wilder, Andy Munro, Moose Greer, Jeff Glebe, even Sally. When I tried to tell them I needed the phone, they didn’t hear me. I shouted. They laughed. I went down a corridor, into another room. A shadowy figure came at me with a bat. I couldn’t move. I tried to scream and woke myself up in a sweat. Elwy was on my chest, sound asleep.
Chapter 24
I was still groggy and grumpy when Andy called the next morning. He didn’t have much news.
“We’re still checking. Both Kelsey and Sloane have some sort of alibi for at least one of the murders. Sloane was home both Saturday and Sunday night. Kelsey was out with Eddie Carter after ten on Saturday and with Carter and his wife on Sunday until nine.”
“Thorson was already dead by then, wasn’t he?”
“Probably.”
“He must have got to the stadium around seven-thirty, according to Sandi. I can’t see him hanging around for long. He was in a hurry to get to the cottage.”
“Exactly.”
“Sloane’s only alibi is his family?”
“But they’re firm on it.”
“He probably threatened to beat them up again.”
“Kate, just because you don’t like somebody doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”
“One, we know he’s a violent man. Two, he bats left-handed.”
“And three, he had no motive for Thorson.”
“Maybe Thorson knew something. Maybe he saw Sloane corning out of Sultan’s place.”
“He just happened to be passing by?”
“Why not?”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did Sloane happen to be at the ballpark?”
“He followed him?”
“You’re reaching, Kate.”
“I guess.”
“Right. Other than that, what’s your day look like?”
“Nothing much. It’s a day game.”
“And you’re going to be in tonight?”
“Probably. Ted Ferguson’s throwing his annual bash for the team and local bigwigs but my invitation seems to be held up in the mail again.”
“Okay. Constable Donny will meet you at the ballpark.”
At least I was able to drive my own car there. A small blessing.
I was busy before the game. Beat writers from around the league had deserted their teams to come and get an early start on their playoff coverage. So there were lots of questions to be answered about new players and the status of the murder story. I was getting more attention than the players.
Moose stopped me on my way to the press box.
“Are you busy tonight, Kate?”
“As it happens I have a rare free evening. Why?”
“Do you want to come to the party tonight? I owe you one after my behaviour on Sunday.”
“Sure, where’s the party?”
“At the Hilton. But I’ll pick you up. Say about seven? Dinner’s at eight.”
“Gee, just like a real date. Do I get a wrist corsage?”
“Don’t push your luck. I’ll see you at seven.”
“Come at a quarter to. We’ll have a drink first.”
I left the field early. There were a couple of scouts I hadn’t been able to reach the day before. I tracked them down and got the last few quotes I needed for the playoff supplement. They thought that even without Thorson and Sanchez the Titans were a sure bet to go to the World Series.
Which reminded me—I hadn’t heard back from Jerry Bergman. I phoned, but he wasn’t in. His office promised that he would get back to me.
It was a loose afternoon, on the field and in the press box. The fans were whooping it up, carrying banners through the stands and heckling the Yankees. Most of the reporters were relaxing, drinking beer and speculating on the winners of the league Most Valuable Player and Cy Young awards.
“Thorson could get it,” I said. “He didn’t win as many games as Costello, but his ERA was lower and he had more strikeouts. Besides, being dead gets the sympathy vote.”
It was generally agreed that there was no likely MVP candidate on the Titans. Three or four guys were having career years, but there wasn’t a standout who had carried the team.
Rookie of the year was another matter. Alex Jones got everybody’s vote in the press box. It was hard to see how the other writers in the league could overlook him.
He made a case for himself in the top of the first inning when he went deep into the hole behind third base and threw out a runner with a perfect, seemingly impossible, throw. That won him his first standing ovation of the day. A bases-loaded triple into the left-centrefield gap in the bottom of the inning won him the second. They would have given him a standing ovation for picking his nose. It was that kind of afternoon.
Red let each of his regulars play two or three innings, then sat them down, but even the subs were hitting. Flakey Patterson shut the Yankees out for seven innings. He would be starting the second game of the playoffs, and looked ready to go. Red sent Goober Grabowski to start the eighth, but the fans called Patterson out of the dugout for another ovation. Final score was 8–1, Titans.
I was home by six, with just enough time to shower and change before Moose came. I wore a dress Sally had talked me into buying. It was cut high in the front and low in the back, with sequins on the bodice and a short tight skirt slit halfway to my bum. Moose was even tall enough for me to wear my spike heels without looking like a giant. I was finishing on my makeup when Jerry Bergman called.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said. “My buddy who took the bet was out of town yesterday. First of all, the bet came in at seven. That’s a bit early.”
“Seven your time. What are you, two hours earlier?”
“What time is it there?”
“Almost six-thirty.”
“It’s twenty-five after three here. Three hours.”
“Hmm. Who made it?”
“A guy they call the Hawk. Strictly a small-time guy. The guy at Leroy’s figures it was someone else’s money.”
“They don’t know his name?”
“Jimmy Hawkins, I think. He’s a rounder. Played some pro ball about twenty years ago. I doubt if he made it to the big leagues for more than a cup of coffee. But he boasts about it when he’s boozing, which is most of the time.”
“What does he do?”
“Drives cab, when he’s working. Mainly he chases that one big score. It looks like he’s found it.”
“How would he have that kind of money?”
“Like my buddy said, maybe it wasn’t his.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot for your help. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
“Any time.”
My Baseball Encyclopedia was worth a look. If he’d played at all in the major leagues they’d have his year-by-year records.
Hawkins, James Bonner, didn’t take up much room. He’d amassed a total of fifty-four major-league at bats, spread over three years, with the Seattle Pilots and Milwaukee Brewers, when the team moved. It looked as if he’d made a few trips up in September before he was dropped. I checked his birth date: September 13th, 1947, in Vulture Gulch, Arizona.
Vulture Gulch—“hard by Rooster Creek.” I flipped back through the book. Same home town, same minor-l
eague system. Close enough in age to make no difference. I felt sick.
The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Constable MacPherson speaking.”
“It’s Kate Henry. I have to speak to Staff Sergeant Munro. It’s urgent.”
“He’s not here.”
“Find him.”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
“Tell him to get his ass over here as fast as he can. I think I’m in a lot of trouble.”
Moose rang again.
“Is that your doorbell?”
“Find Munro and get here now.”
Chapter 25
I ran down the stairs and opened the door with what I hoped was a casual smile.
“Sorry, Moose. My zipper got caught. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“No problem,” he said. “You look terrific. Are you ready to go?”
“Just about. I thought we were going to have a drink.”
He came in.
“Martini? I’ve got the glasses in the freezer.”
“Martini’s fine,” he said, following me to the kitchen.
“So, what’s tonight going to be like? This is my first time at the big event.”
“No big deal. A lot of community types to be nice to. But there’s usually a suite later where the players can go and get shit-faced.”
“You can hardly blame them this year,” I said, getting the gin out of the refrigerator, trying not to check the clock too obviously. “It’s really fun to be around them these days. I must admit I never thought I’d still be around when they won their first pennant.”
“I had some doubts myself.”
“Are all the credentials ready? You’ve been so busy I’ve hardly seen you in days.” I added a few drops of vermouth and started an olive hunt in the cupboard.
“They came from the printers this afternoon. The girls will be stuffing the envelopes tomorrow.”
“When can we pick them up?”
“Monday, at the hotel. The media rooms open at noon.”
“Here you go. I hope it’s to your liking.”
The Dead Pull Hitter Page 17
